journey

The Man Who Walked in Circles: A Journey of Acceptance

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–3 minutes

The Man Who Walked in Circles

Everett Langston was trapped in a perpetual orbit. He had been walking in circles for as long as he remembered. It wasn’t a choice, but a fate that had befallen him. Seeing a circular object, even if insignificant, would betray his feet. This sight led him into an endless loop.

Doctors had puzzled over his condition. Some called it a compulsion, others a neurological disorder. But Everett knew the truth: it was a curse.

It started when he was a boy. One autumn afternoon, he saw a pumpkin on his grandmother’s porch. Without realizing it, he walked around it once. Then again. And again. His grandmother, amused at first, soon grew concerned when he wouldn’t stop. His father physically picked him up and carried him inside to break the spell.

As he grew older, the compulsion became more disruptive. A simple trip to the grocery store became an ordeal. Aisles stocked with oranges would catch his eye. The wheels on carts made him spin them in his mind. The bakery’s showcase of bagels would pull him into endless rotations. He learned to avoid certain places. He refused to go near playgrounds. Merry-go-rounds were his nemesis. He avoided tire shops. He walked with his head down in parking lots to keep from spotting hubcaps.

But the world was an entire circle.

One day, Everett found himself in the city’s heart, caught in a storm of misfortune. A coin flipped onto the pavement—a round-the-clock hanging above a storefront. A drain cover was embedded in the sidewalk. He circled each one, his breath coming faster, his steps quick and mechanical. Passersby stared. Some chuckled. Others whispered.

Then he saw it.

In the middle of the city square stood an enormous fountain, its base a perfect, unbroken circle. Panic gripped him. His legs moved before he resisted, pulling him into a slow, deliberate orbit—once, twice, ten times. A police officer approached, asking if he was lost. But Everett only mutter, “I just have to finish.”

The sun dipped below the skyline. His legs ached. His vision blurred. But still, he walked.

And then—just as exhaustion took hold, something remarkable happened.

For the first time in his life, he stopped.

In the fountain’s reflection, he saw the stars above, scattered across the sky in celestial loops, infinite and unending. A smile of understanding crept onto his face. The world had been walking in circles all along, and he was just a part of it.

And so, he kept walking—not because he had to.

He continued to walk. It was not out of compulsion but from a newfound understanding. He accepted his place in the world.

The Last Drop: A Cowboy’s Journey of Sacrifice

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–4 minutes

The Last Drop

The desert stretched endlessly before him. A sea of golden sand and jagged rock shimmering under the merciless sun. Nathan Calloway, a weathered cowboy, pulled his bandanna higher over his nose. He squinted against the glare. Nathan’s loyal companion, Dusty, plodded steadily ahead, hooves sinking into the loose sand. It had been days since they left the last water hole. The journey across this godforsaken land felt like it would never end.

Nathan had one canteen slung across his saddle. He’d filled it to the brim at the last watering hole, which seemed a hundred miles behind them now. Each time Nathan drank, he made sure Dusty drank, too. He’d pour water into his old, sweat-stained hat, holding it steady while the horse lapped it.

Miles passed, the sun crawling toward the horizon without relief. Nathan should’ve run dry by now. His canteen weighted it, sloshing like he had just filled it. He didn’t question it—just kept pouring for Dusty, letting the horse drink before taking a sip himself.

By the time they reached the halfway mark, the world felt different. The heat played tricks on Nathan’s mind, distorting the horizon and bending the sky. The rhythmic clopping of Dusty’s hooves became a heartbeat against the silence.

Then, Dusty spoke.

“Thanks, partner,” 

The horse said, his voice deep and smooth as rolling thunder.

Nathan blinked hard, his throat tightening. 

“What was that?”

“For the water,”

Dusty said, shaking his mane. 

“I appreciate it.”

Nathan swallowed. He knew heat can make a man see things and hear things that weren’t real. But this felt different. He’d spent years with Dusty—maybe it just took this long to finally listen to him.

“You’re welcome, old boy,”

Nathan murmured, tipping the canteen over his hat again. Dusty drank, his dark eyes filled with something knowing, something grateful. The horse seemed to understand the sacrifice Nathan was making for him. Nathan, in turn, felt a deep sense of responsibility and care for his companion.

The two trudged on, man and horse, surviving together. The sun burned down. Their shadows stretched thin. The canteen never emptied as long as Nathan gave to Dusty first.

Then, just as the town rooftops shimmered into view, something changed.

Nathan stopped. His body ached, exhaustion weighing him down. The canteen felt lighter now. The end was so close—only a half-mile to go. He took a long, deep drink, the first he hadn’t shared. The water was warm but pure, sliding down his throat. Nathan’s hands trembled as he lowered the canteen.

Dusty faltered. The horse’s breath came shallow, his steps unsteady.

Nathan hesitated. He looked at the canteen, now feeling light as air. Nathan shook it—nothing.

The world spun. The last stretch of desert blurred. Nathan swayed in the saddle.

A mile outside town, they found him. The townsfolk rushed ahead, lifting the man from his horse, but Nathan Calloway was gone. Dusty stood by, head bowed, his sides heaving. The canteen dangled empty from the saddle, not a drop left inside.

“You almost made it,”

Someone whispered.

No one noticed Dusty raise his head slightly, his dark eyes glistening with something almost human. He looked toward where his rider lay, then toward the empty horizon.

Deep in the desert’s silence, a voice like rolling thunder whispered,

“We made it.”

My Father’s Journey: From Service Station to Horse Ranch

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

4–5 minutes

Today, as I write, I ponder what story to share. Specific recollections stand out, shaping my life in ways that make them worth remembering.


One of my fondest memories is traveling with my father and one of his friends. These journeys often involved a horse—whether for a rodeo, a parade, or taking a mare to be bred. I remember sitting in the middle of the pickup seat. The air conditioning blasted my face. The two men talked nonstop. The smell of their cigarettes filled the cab; they never cracked a window. Though I never smoked a day in my life, I suspect I passively inhaled enough to equate to thirty packs.

This was the early 1970s when smoking held no taboos, even around children. My father eventually quit in his late fifties, relieved to be free of nicotine’s grip. Sadly, six months later, he responded to a chlorine leak at a swimming pool. While shutting off the container, he inhaled the toxic gas, permanently damaging his lungs. From then on, breathing was a struggle. The medications he took to manage his condition weakened his bones. By 63, he was no longer capable of walking. He passed away shortly after. But in those 63 years, he packed in a lifetime of experiences.


Reflecting on my childhood, I marvel at how my parents managed to supply for six children. We weren’t wealthy, yet they kept us clothed, fed, and engaged—horse riding, basketball, piano lessons, and football. We started in a beautiful three-bedroom brick home in a great community. My father owned a Texaco service station and volunteered as a fireman. Some neighbors even urged him to run for city council, but his passion lay elsewhere. He dreamed of owning a quarter-horse farm, a dream that required sacrifice.


The first step was selling our home. We moved into a one-bedroom rental, with my parents in the sole bedroom and us kids on foldout couches. My father attended barber school, planning for the future. A year later, he purchased forty acres in a small town 35 miles away. He used the money from selling the house and service station. The land was densely wooded, and my father and three older brothers worked tirelessly to clear it for a home.


He found a house nearby for sale, provided it was moved. It had four rooms downstairs, one upstairs, and disconnected kitchen and bathroom additions. Two trucks transported the house 28 miles to our new farm. Once settled, we designated rooms: the kitchen, living room, and bedrooms. The steep stairs to the upstairs bedroom often left me bruised from falls. I loved that room. It had windows at both ends, letting a breeze flow as I gazed at the valley. I imagined future adventures.
I discovered my secret hideout underneath those stairs, meant to be my sister’s closet. Small enough to squeeze deep inside, I stayed undetected until I was spotted and lost my perfect hiding place.


Life on the farm lacked modern conveniences, including indoor plumbing. My father found an abandoned outhouse and positioned it over a dry well. Inside, we had two five-gallon buckets of water for drinking, with a dipper hanging above and another for washing dishes. Each day, my father refilled them after closing his barbershop in town.


We also had no phone service at first. When we finally got a phone, I was about eight. The company laid a single line down the rural road. We shared it with three other families on a party line. Each household had a distinct ring. Still, anyone might eavesdrop. Power outages were frequent, lasting days during snowstorms or severe thunderstorms, making access to our home difficult in bad weather.


My father and brothers built horse barns south of our home. At one point, we had over forty horses. Spring was the busiest, with foals being born. My father hosted roping events, where friends gathered to rope all day. Eventually, he installed arena lighting, allowing him to ride even after long days in the barbershop. I joined him often, eating more red sand from falling off horses and calves than I care to remember.


Over time, the horses dwindled to just mine and his. My siblings had moved on from riding. My father worried that his aging stud horse was no longer suitable for breeding. That’s when he became a ranger at the Girl Scout camp, changing my world entirely. Life on the farm transitioned into something new and unknown. What I learned at the camp shaped me. It taught me the value of acceptance. The lessons in resilience have stayed with me through life’s most challenging moments. But that, as they say, is another story entirely.

To end, I want to include a question I recently asked my 95-year-old mother:

“You went through so much. It all started after selling the brick home. You moved from the life we had in the city. Knowing all this, would you do it again?”

She replied,

“in a heartbeat!”

Midnight Drives: A Journey of Freedom and Reflection

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

1–2 minutes

The Open Road at Midnight

For Jake, the best time of his life wasn’t marked by grand achievements or milestones. It wasn’t a wedding, a promotion, or a once-in-a-lifetime trip. It was far more straightforward—something that came in the quiet hours when the rest of the world seemed to sleep.

He lived for those midnight drives. The highways stretched out before him like ribbons of endless possibility, empty and open beneath the glow of streetlights. There was something sacred in those moments. He would roll the windows down and let the wind rush in. It carried away the day’s weight. The music was always loud—classic rock, country, sometimes blues—whatever fit the night’s mood.

With no destination in mind, Jake would drive. Sometimes, it was the backroads, where the stars shone brighter than the city’s glow. Other times, it was the interstate. The hum of his tires and the engine rhythm became part of the melody.

Those drives were freedom and escape. There were also the rare moments when Jake’s thoughts never became tangled in the past or anxious for the future. He wasn’t Jake, the overworked employee, or the guy who never quite figured things out. He was just a man, a car, the night, and the music.

One night, he pulled onto a deserted stretch of highway. The wind whipped through his hair. Tom Petty’s Runnin’ Down a Dream poured from the speakers. He pressed the gas just a little harder. He felt the weightlessness of it all. He experienced a unique peace. No one was around to remind him of the world’s expectations.

He wished he had bottled that feeling—the weightlessness and possibility. The night seemed to whisper that everything would be okay, even if it wasn’t.

But maybe that was the beauty of it. It wasn’t meant to last forever—just long enough to remind Jake of what it felt like to be alive.

The Power of Storytelling: My Journey Through Words

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

A Journey Through Words: For Everyone Who Has Liked My Stories Over Time!

Each day, I search the depths of memory for details that can shape a story. Sometimes, I draw inspiration from current events or pressing concerns that resonate with my readers. Usually, the stories I share come from personal experiences; they are events I lived through firsthand or about those close to me. Or, I was involved enough with a concern to know the details intimately.  

As a child, I had a speech defect. It kept me from speaking up in crowds, around strangers, or in public settings. What seemed like a limitation at the time was a gift—it taught me to listen. I became an observer, absorbing conversations, secrets, and moments others have overlooked. I often teased my older relatives that I held onto some of the family’s best-kept secrets. Over time, those secrets became stories—carefully crafted to preserve history while protecting the people behind them. It also helped me to learn how to be invisible, in a sense. When you stay still and always stay quiet, people overlook the kid in the corner. Conversations happen, and they let their guard down. That was a gift of sorts I brought in my adult life.

There’s a line I often use when people ask what I’ve done in life. I tell them, half-jokingly:  

“I’ve done damn near everything.”

And it’s true.  

I started working on our farm at eight, feeding horses, cleaning barns, and doing chores. Later, I rode fences, helped my dad with his duties as a ranger, and ran errands. As a teenager, I worked at the camp he oversaw, mowing lawns and clearing brush. Once I got my driver’s license, I started hauling hay and peanuts with three friends. It was some of the most challenging work I’ve ever done.  

I became a police officer and served in that role until retirement, after which I transitioned into radio broadcasting. I anchored newscasts for a five-state radio network before moving to a larger market as a news director. Eventually, I returned to law enforcement, working for the Department of Corrections, where I tracked down escaped prisoners. Tracking sometimes required undercover jobs—working at bakeries, hardware stores, magazine suppliers, or grocery stores—blending into communities to locate fugitives. I blend into the scenes, always becoming invisible, just as I did when I was younger. I was always successful, though I often found it hard to leave the undercover roles behind.  The people I had met always became colleagues.

After the September 11th attacks, my spouse’s employer offered a transfer from Kansas to Phoenix, Arizona. The decision was easy. I left law enforcement behind. I found work with Ford-Volvo of North America. I became a vehicle test driver at the Arizona Proving Grounds. I assisted the Ford assembly group in the winter. In the summer, I tested the endurance of Volvo cars and SUVs in the Arizona heat.  

In 2008, medical issues forced me to stop driving. That’s when I turned to writing—first with news articles and then by building news sites for small communities. The site you’re reading now was born from that transition. I created this space when I realized traditional employment was no longer a choice.  

When I started using WordPress, it differed from the platforms I had worked with. I learned through trial and error, studying the work of others, adapting, and refining my skills. Over time, I explored your sites. I saw your creativity, dedication, and unique voices. I better understood how to navigate and thrive in this space.  

I’ve always believed that you get back what you put into something. That’s why I make it a point to read the work of others—it broadens my perspective beyond my world. And for that, I’m grateful.  

To all our followers, subscribers, and readers—thank you. Yesterday, I received a message from WordPress announcing that our site has reached **500 likes!** That’s an incredible milestone, especially since I don’t commercially promote these stories or actively drive traffic to them. This achievement is entirely because of your support, shares, and encouragement.  

I truly appreciate every one of you for being part of this journey. It seems trivial to some. But, for someone who overcame a speech defect, getting 500 likes is a big deal. Thank you, indeed!

The Man’s Journey For Two People Who Agree On Everthing

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

A man named Walter Henshaw lived in a small town. This town was nestled between rolling hills. Walter was known for his insatiable curiosity, always pondering life’s mysteries. One evening, as he sat on his front porch watching the sunset, he wondered aloud,

“Is it possible to find two people in this world who agree on everything?”

The thought consumed him, and soon, Walter embarked on a journey around the world to find the answer. He packed his belongings, bid farewell to his friends and family, and set off on his quest.

Walter’s first stop was Paris, where he met a pair of artists who were painting by the Seine. They seemed in perfect harmony, laughing and finishing each other’s sentences. But when Walter asked them if they agreed on everything, they chuckled.

“Of course not,”

One replied.

“He thinks Monet is the greatest, but I prefer Van Gogh.”

Undeterred, Walter traveled to India, where he visited a monastery high in the Himalayas. There, he met two monks who had lived in silence for decades. Walter was sure he had found his answer, but when he posed his question, one monk smiled and said,

“I prefer tea; he prefers coffee.”

Walter traveled onward. He visited the bustling streets of New York City. Then he experienced the serene countryside of Japan. Finally, he explored the vast plains of Africa. He encountered lifelong friends. He met devoted couples. He even found identical-twins everywhere he went. Nonetheless, no two people ever claimed to agree on everything.

After years of traveling, Walter found himself in a small village in South America. He met an elderly couple who had been together for over seventy years. Patiently, they listened as Walter told them about his journey.

The older man chuckled and said,

“Young man, love is not about agreeing on everything. It’s about embracing differences and finding common ground.”

Walter sat in silence, absorbing the wisdom. He realized then that his journey had taught him more than he ever imagined. The beauty of human connection lies not in absolute agreement but in understanding, compromise, and the joy of diversity.

It also reminded him of one chap he had met in the United States who said to him –––

“Show me any two people who agree on everything, sir, and I will show you a pair of liars!”

Returning home, Walter shared his experiences with his friends and family. He had not found two people who agreed on everything. Still, he discovered something even more valuable. He gained an appreciation for the uniqueness that made each person unique.

Once a seeker of perfect agreement, Walter Henshaw sought harmony. He became a storyteller. He wove tales of his adventures and the lessons he had learned. He realized that life wasn’t about finding someone who thinks as you do. Instead, it is about learning to cherish the differences. These differences make life enjoyable and meaningful.

In the end, Walter’s journey had been about connection, not conformity. He found peace knowing that the world was more prosperous because of its endless variety.